


The Same Old Song

by atom2



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Arizona Diamondbacks, Ficlet, Gen, Milwaukee Brewers, Old Guy Yearning, Symbolism, being a world series winner is fun until you realize you're nothing to both teams, it be like that sometimes, some introspection, write tag machine broke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atom2/pseuds/atom2
Summary: Craig Counsell is a World Series champion. He does not use that as a mantra while shaving.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	The Same Old Song

**Author's Note:**

> i dug this thing up while exploring my WIPs, realized i wanted to publish it, then remembered i had zero remnants of the creative juices present while originally writing it. so uh, here's a ficlet about the random old guy i can't shut up about. that is left disgustingly open-ended because *jumps out window to avoid confrontation*
> 
> title inspired by "the shipped gold standard" by fall out boy, if that matters to you.

Craig Counsell is a World Series champion. He does not use that as a mantra while shaving.

He tries it when the Brewers are 5 games back in the division and he’s feeling extra hopeless. “Craig Counsell is a World Series champion.” The $50 razor a teammate convinced him to buy nicks his cheek. It stings, mixing with the cream. Craig takes it as a warning. (He would never say it again.)

The rings sit in his office, boxes open to display the dated designs. He isn’t so anal he polishes them, they still glitter after all these years anyway. 22 and 18; ‘97 and ‘01. Craig saves looking at them for stories visitors ask for. He counts each individual jewel only when he’s stressed. 

The back of his mind tells him he’s been doing that a lot lately.

_

2006\. Twelve years ago, five since the Diamondbacks’ last championship. Four years since they made the playoffs.

“Craig, I need to be honest with you. You willing to hear it?”

Looking into the eyes of Byrnes is easy now. There’s no freshly-signed pit sitting in his stomach, yearning for another chance and hoping to impress. Before the World Series, he bounced around. After, he bounced around some more. Playing in your hometown is sweet as cherry pie, but the sugar makes your stomach ache when you’ve had an unfulfilled legacy. Craig faced the fact they weren't going to retire his number in Miami when he signed with Arizona a year ago. This new conversation about honesty reads that there is, once again, no good news.

“I’ve taken everything you’ve told me so far,” Craig answers, eyes drifting to his GM’s starched button-up. It’s too concise- the atmosphere is too concise; it doesn’t feel like a conversation that’s meant for him, even if he’s sitting on the other side of the desk alone. The air is desert-dry.

“Of course,” Byrnes says with a mournful smile and laugh, “you’ve never been one to be afraid of the truth.”

An empty silence forces their ears to ring. The water in the dispenser at the other end of the room stills. Yet birds outside continue their song. The bright blue sky is wonderful.

“I've decided it would be best to not extend you. It’s been a pleasure having you in Arizona, but we’re looking to move on.”

Craig can breathe again. He didn’t know he stopped. “Oh.”

“It’s a new era, a new look. Postseason rosters have been hard to come by. Do you have any doubt that you would like to gain an opportunity somewhere else?”

A pause tells Craig how much he’s given, and that maybe this once, it was enough. This is how the chapter ends. “No.”

“It was a pleasure having you on this team, Craig.” Byrnes reaches his hand across the table to shake. Craig follows the ordinary move, standing up while he squeezes. The uncomfortably tight departure is a good pairing with the scratchy office chair he was sitting in before, blond wood digging into his ribs. “Just don’t sign with the Dodgers, ok?”

“They released me a few years ago, and I’m old enough that they don’t want me back. But don’t test your luck.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

_

In November, the birds of Milwaukee sing to Craig on his back porch. He looks at the crow perched on the railing covered in light powder snow, the same he’s taken the afternoon to sweep up. It caws at Craig like it’s speaking directly to him, a messenger sent by the birds in the treetops.

“What?” he asks. A beady eye stares back at him. Little clawed feet wobble to keep their balance. “Is this some conspiracy?”

The crow tilts its head and waits, patient for a response less cynical. Craig says nothing, sighs, and gets back to sweeping. Unappreciative of ignorance, the bird makes a short flight to the table to Craig’s left, its wings disturbing the perfect dusting of snow on top. Craig looks, again, at what is seeking his attention. The crow looks right back.

“Thanks for the help, buddy, but I don’t think I’ll be eating dinner out here anytime soon.”

After discovering its help won’t contribute to Craig’s cause, the bird flies away with a sad demeanor. Craig continues to sweep. When he hears one more caw, he looks up again. At the top of the tallest pine tree in the neighborhood sits the crow, looking right at him, saying, “stay here. Stay home.”

Five days later, Craig signs with the Brewers and has no intention of leaving.

_

Summers in Milwaukee are the best kind for a kid who wants to play baseball. For a 36-year-old, it has the same effect, only the mosquito bites provide a weird satisfaction.

“That shit never works. You’re almost better playing without it,” he tells Chris Capuano, who’s picked up a bottle of bug spray and gone to town.

“Well, you’re not playing all 9 innings, Couns.”

He’s right, you know. Craig couldn’t hit an inside-the-park home run without breaking a hip. But he’s young enough to chirp back, “you’re keeping that 0-fer streak greasy and with itchy arms, Cappy.”

“A hundred bucks I won’t.”

“A thousand. I’ll give you another if it’s a complete game.”

“Deal.”

Cappy trudges into the dugout after the sixth, when it’s sure his 0-8 record is 0-9, as Craig predicted. Craig feels bad for smiling when he enters the dugout himself. He’s trying to hide it, he really is, but pride always finds a way of becoming him. By the final out, he’s over it.

In the clubhouse, it’s the usual somber-quiet after a loss. It doesn’t penetrate Craig’s psyche enough for him to feel bad for Cappy when he approaches soggy-haired after a shower.

“I’ll get your money tomorrow, Craig. Buy yourself something pretty.”

_

2010\. The stupidest argument Craig has ever had with his wife. As a retirement gift- a ‘thanks for spending your last couple years as a washed-up ace with us’- the Brewers gave Trevor Hoffman a riding lawn mower, decked out in Brewers colors. Trevor, having spent almost all his career in San Diego, said, ‘thanks, but no thanks.'

He and Craig had an old guy heart-to-heart after almost everyone had left that night. Craig admitted that he, too, would be retiring within the next season.

“Do you want the lawnmower?” Trevor asked.

“It’s for you.”

“Yeah, but,” he paused, trying to articulate the rest of his sentence. “You have more of an attachment to this place than I do. I mean, look at that thing. I’m not a Brewer, you are. Take it.”

Despite it being a riding lawn mower, not a million dollars, Craig asked again. “You sure?”

“I’m giving it to Rickie Weeks if you don’t want it.”

“What?”

“It’s yours.”

The next morning, after Craig thought it was all said and done, he mentioned the lawnmower. Michelle didn’t like the idea as much as he did. She burned her hand, missing her mug when pouring coffee.

“Shit, Craig,” she complained, swearing more out of pain than her feelings about Craig’s surprise. In a rush, not panic, she turned the sink faucet as cold as it could go before sticking her hand under.

“Yes?”

“You’re giving it back,” she said, turning from the running faucet to Craig sitting at the kitchen table. Her good hand was on her hip, right in its special position for when she isn’t going to change her mind.

“It’s a lawnmower. He gave it to me!”

“It’s supposed to be for him!”

“He said, ‘Craig, you can have the lawnmower, I don’t need it and there’s no way I’ll be able to get that thing to California, anyway.’”

“What if he wants it back? For sentimental purposes?” Michelle figured she’d had her hand under the water enough and turned the tap off. “A charity auction?”

“He can buy a brand new John Deere any time he wants to, Michelle. He’s Trevor freaking Hoffman!”

**Author's Note:**

> i broke out my brewers media guide for this shit.


End file.
